All of it against the backdrop of Lyle’s wild laughter. And under the gaze of the Brain. The giant man stands motionless save his breathing, a placid boulder.

I try to pull the blond kid up off the ground, but he’s lost his mind. Grunts and shrieks. Lyle leans over and slaps the kid across the face. He keeps screaming, so Lyle tries to slap him again.

I grab Lyle’s bicep, pull him back. It takes all my strength. “Brain,” I say, putting Lyle into a full-on bear hug. “Dump them in the field. Don’t hurt ’em.”

The Brain says nothing, glances at Lyle. I’m not a general like the other Zeniths: Stilman, Daley, Valentine. But the cowboy has gone vacant, so the Brain obeys me. Grabs both the kids by the back of their shirts, one in each hand, and drags them out the front door. Two sacks of squirming meat wrapped in T-shirts.

I let go of Lyle and he drops to the floor. Scoots back to lean against the wall. He rests a tattoo-stained arm across one knee. His forehead wrinkles as he tries to come out of it. His limbs quiver and he grimaces, shakes his head. I start to breathe normally again. I could puke, but damned if I’m going to lose it in front of Lyle. Not ever again.

“What the hell was that?” I ask him.

Lyle wipes his face with his sleeve. He stands up and peeks out the window. Grins, daylight flashing from his shark eyes.

“If you’re gonna be useful, I needed you to see,” he says. “You got to know how bad they want what we got.”

Thousands Attend Pure Pride Counterprotest

PHOENIX—Doctors, libertarians, technology workers, and pro-choice advocates attended a huge statehouse rally Thursday, saying that leaders nationwide had gone too far in pushing an agenda opponents consider an attack on the American citizen’s right to control his or her own body.

State police said more than 8,000 people gathered outside the capitol building at the rally’s peak, making it the largest at the Arizona capitol in years. Hundreds of supporters for the Pure Human Citizen’s Council also attended, separated by a strip of parking lot but with both sides trading insults. An atmosphere of hostility permeated the event. Local police monitored both groups, intent on preventing violence.

Jared Cohen, head of the Free Body Liberty Group, delivered a stirring speech under heavy security, telling a cheering crowd of thousands that “America is built on a foundation of freedom, and that includes the freedom to choose what technology we put into our bodies.”

Senator Joseph Vaughn, president of the Pure Human Citizen’s Council, claimed the FBLG had gone too far and that, if left unchecked, implantable technology could destroy the fabric of society. “They are calling for a war on humanity. And this is a battle that we must win, if not for ourselves, then for our children and our children’s children.”

Jim leans forward in his squeaky La-Z-Boy recliner, the fabric on its arms shined to a high gloss by his knobby elbows. The chair looks like a stray dog covered in burn wounds, but Jim is oblivious, blue eyes bright.

“I told ya, kid,” he says. “It’s not too late.”

It’s right there on the tube, on the evening news. The Free Body Liberty Group out of Arizona. The FBLG is protesting at the Arizona State Capitol. Behind a chattering newscaster, I can see the angel of justice perched on the roof of the capitol building, her sword raised. The crowd there is loud and proud and standing up for an American’s right to decide just exactly what to do with his or her own damn body.

Maybe Samantha was wrong.

Jim is cracking a smile at me from across the living room, gray stubble collapsing into mirthful wrinkles. He sits at attention like an exclamation point in the wood-paneled living room. A dust-coated deer head stares down at us from its mount on the wall. Head lowered and horns poised, challenging infinity with black eyes.

“There’s still goodness in people,” muses Jim, watching the television. “Take that, Vaughn, you dickhead.”

I’m grinning back at Jim. Trying to enjoy this moment—the first time we’ve seen an organized group of people holding up the amp end of the dialogue.

“This is how it has to happen,” says Jim. “The regular folks have to fix things. We can’t force them into it.”

These are vanilla humans standing up for their family and friends. Most of the temples on the television are bare. A minority but finally vocal. I can’t help thinking that if those were amps standing on the capitol steps, well, it would be a different scene.

Somehow, Jim hears it coming first. Moaning floats through the window, too shocked to be crying anymore. Without a word, Jim pries himself out of his La-Z-Boy and hauls ass into his bedroom.

I’m half out of my seat when the front door bursts open. Lucy staggers inside, carrying Nick in both arms. The kid falls onto the couch.

There’s a rivulet of blood coming from his temple.

“What happened?” I gasp.

“Spotlighters,” says Lucy. “Must have got him crossing the field.”

Nick moans again, but I can’t make out the words. Something is different about him. Something I can’t quite place…

His maintenance port is gone.

That little nub stripped right off his face. The skin around it is raw and puffy and bleeding.

I can’t believe he is still conscious.

Lucy looks over, and I turn to see Jim framed in the weak hallway light. He’s got his worn old doctor’s bag pinned under a skinny bicep.

“Get a wet rag from the kitchen, Owen,” Jim says.

The old man is all business, squatting by the couch next to Nick. He glances up to Lucy and starts to say something, stops, lower lip quivering. Sets his jaw and starts again.

“Can he still see?” Jim asks Lucy.

It’s a simple, short question. But after he asks it, the old man swallows a lump of emotion. Forces it down past his Adam’s apple and into his paunchy stomach. Down there, the despair can chew him up slow instead of consuming him all at once.

“I don’t know,” says Lucy. “He found his way home. But they tore it out.”

“Christ,” he says. “I’m not sure what we can do without the port.”

I drop a wet dishrag into Jim’s hand and he dabs at Nick’s temple. Scrubs the dirt away, leaving pink, inflamed skin. The rag comes away filthy and dark with blood. But the boy starts to stir. His eyes open and rotate back and forth.

“Nick,” says Jim, waving at his face, “what do you see?”

Nick turns and squints up at his adoptive mother. Doesn’t say anything. His thin lips press together in a white line, and he closes his eyes again and a new wave of tears streams down his face.

“Baby, you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be okay,” says Lucy, stroking his cheek with one hand and methodically wiping tears from her eyes with the other.

“You’re doing great, Nick,” I say.

Jim strokes Nick’s head, pushes wet strands of hair out of his confused face. A goose egg is growing on his forehead, cratered by a small red gash. Turning dark fast.

Lucy and Jim look at each other. A question is in the set of her lips, in the concerned wrinkle of her forehead. She leaves it unspoken.

“Best case it’s just a concussion,” Jim says. “I’m going to need to get a look at what’s left of the maintenance nub to find out. Seems okay for now. The implant itself is still in there. Port could have come out clean at the connector. But you know, worst case, if it came out rough …”

Lucy says what Jim can’t.

“Brain damage.”